BEFORE | Like a person getting married, or one awaiting a critical court trial, or one in the latter stages of a pregnancy, these last few months, I've had one thing—and one thing only—etched onto my mind: my first significant one-man show in Paris.

If you'd said, ten years ago, that I'd have a one-man show in Paris, I'd never have believed it. Such a thing would have seemed so far away, almost impossible.

It's true that living in Paris makes it much easier to make contacts. It's been quite a long journey, and I have to be thankful to a friend of a friend who invited me to an exhibition and suggested that I introduce myself to the gallery owner and make an appointment to show her my work.

That first showing involved some rather painful silences, as the owner leafed through my drawings. Luckily, I was able to convince her I was worth another look. I was told to call after the holidays (there was no sense of urgency on her part) to arrange a time for her to see my larger works. This also gave me time to buy some large canvasses, and to try to forge a better impression with her. Her reputation preceded her: she was a tough nut to crack.

We made an appointment.  I dragged in more and more of my art, getting more and more desperate. More distressful silences. While she perused my offerings, I attempted to calculate what was going on in her mind. She was worried, I  presumed, that I didn't have enough work to fill her gallery. Finally, I received the nod of approval I'd been coveting, however no definitive date. Months passed and I came to believe that my promised exhibition had been forgotten. Then, a card to say my exhibition would be in May, but no concrete date provided. Finally, an eMail with a proposed date! It's nice to work towards something concrete, as opposed to working for the sake of working; the last few months have been all about this exhibition. Polishing up old works, keeping an eye  on the streets of Paris for discarded pieces of wood that might be transformed into works of art, or other suitable objet trouvé.

Painting  is an obsession, it drives me crazy. I live in a small space that's dominated by painting.  My paintings are never far from my mind; I'm constantly  plotting strategies and colors, how to improve. People often ask how long it takes to complete one of my works; some of the paintings in this exhibition were started, maybe, four years ago and have been regularly worked on and re-styled.

Persistent evolution. Ongoing reappraisal.

I frequently wake up in the morning, look at a painting, and feel an urge to work in it, not even bothering to change from my T-shirt and boxer shorts.

If people really knew the state in which I live, I'd be taken away by men in white coats, but there are painters out there who I'm sure understand my obsession. There are periods when you wonder, why do I go through all of this? Is there any outcome or reward at the end it? But then take the paintings out of my dark and dingy apartment, put them in orderly lines on a white wall, and they take on new identities.

I've had to struggle to take some of them on the métro. I've had to balance working towards this show and while working at my day job as a teacher. The fact is, paint gets everywhere when one works in a confined space. I get paint on my favorite clothes, or clothes that are supposed to look immaculate for work. It’s a dangerous game getting in a bit of painting before heading to work, but sometimes my painting compulsion dictates that I do just that.

Other creative activities relax me, but when I paint, I've been known to work up into a frenzy. My apartment grows more and more chaotic, and tidying rituals are brushed aside, despite the fact that I like order. When I'm in painting mode, nothing can stop me; I paint until I feel I'm done. Only then can I bother with activities such as eating. It's an intensely insular world I'll occupy until this exhibition, where my soul will be laid bare.

AFTER | It’s great to see the work up on the walls, but standing with the gallery owner and her grey-bearded friend (a musician who'd been to England to pursue his musical career and had rock star circa early Pink Floyd written all over him), waiting for people to arrive, is a nerve-racking experience. My biggest fear: Will people come? Of course, I've sent out invitations, eMails to anybody I thought might come. I've coaxed friends to invite their friends; if they have rich friends, even better. A lot happens in Paris, and people have a number of choices on any given Saturday night.

I struggle to make polite conversation in French. I feel uncomfortable and near inadequate. The first person to arrive is a man with a porkpie hat. A few minutes after the appointed time for the show open, we're all huddled by the bottles of wine and bread and paté. I watch for what all the early visitors do. The Dickensian gallery owner isn't the welcoming type, only expressing empathy towards those who are regulars at her space. Having been to previous shows here, I knew that at least some long-haired, rather elderly, Monet  look-alikes would be present. I’d had this dark fear a few days before the opening of my exhibition, when I imagined French transport workers would go on strike, meaning the show would be a sure disaster, with people staying at home. Absurd paranoia.

With a small crowd assembled, at least my initial fear of an empty vernissage has been averted. Then, of course, you want the people to stay a reasonable length  of time. My second fear was: Will they spend the time to look at the works, or will they just converse and drink wine? Happily, this fear also has been averted.

I'm really impressed that people are making some astute observations about the themes that run through my work. A few tell me their preferences, which is fine; we're all entitled to our preferences. In the end,  the price and effort were worth it. When this exhibition is over, and I shift all the work back to my small apartment, I'll look forward to doing another show, but the memory from this one will, no doubt, be positive and abiding.